


Tickling

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Leather Kink, M/M, Season/Series 01, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Brian helps Justin discover two hitherto unknown kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tickling

**Author's Note:**

> Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a story in the [Everything He Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880530) collection of stand-alone stories. The gorgeous banner was made by Urugwaj.

TICKLING

It should’ve occurred to me that first night I went home with Brian, but it didn’t. Nothing occurred to me that night except that I was with the most amazing person I’d ever met. But looking back . . . yeah, that’s different. Every detail, every moment, is carved into my memory, among them the fact that Brian _licked my ass_! Holy shit! Now, since I’m free to surf porn on Brian’s computer, I know that rimming isn’t all that exotic, but to me that night it sure as hell was. And what was even weirder was that I wanted to lick his ass too, and I would’ve if he’d given me the opening . . . Lol! Blame him for the stupid puns, too. He’s as shameless about wordplay as he is about every other kind of play. In a lot of ways, he’s just an adult-sized kid. You should see how excited he gets over my science projects.

Anyway, back to the issue of what hadn’t occurred to me that first night but should’ve. What if he was a sick weirdo with some kind of bizarre fetish? What if he liked stuffing gerbils up his butt – or, even worse, up mine? I didn’t want a rodent stuffed up my butt. Hell, it wasn’t until I saw his beautiful cock that I wanted _anything_ stuffed up my butt. 

God knows what could’ve happened to me. It’s strange feeling stupid for doing the most important thing in your life, but it’s true. Brian, himself, reminds me on a regular basis, which is pretty rich. _Don’t go home with anyone_ , he tells me. _Backrooms, bathhouses, okay. They’re public places. But when you go to someone’s home you’re walking into his lair. Don’t forget that_. I’ve wanted to ask whether his lesson derived from an unpleasant experience, but I don’t dare. If he did once go home with someone he shouldn’t have, he’d never tell anyone about it, I’m sure.

Fortunately for me (and God only knows how many other guys), Brian seems to enjoy a wide range of activities and practices but doesn’t seem to fixate on any one thing in particular. In fact, the other day he even told me outright that he doesn’t have a fetish . . .

 _. . . but _you_ might_ , he’d said, smiling that sharky sex smile of his. _Maybe we should find out_.

I’d all but forgotten our conversation until the night the Doc told Brian that he was too skinny to look good in leather pants.

The next day, Brian drove to Philly and bought a pair of leather pants so tight that underwear wasn’t an option. The cow that’d given its life for those pants was obviously created for the sole purpose of making Brian’s long legs and perfect ass look even longer and more perfect. It took a lot of tugging and squirming to get him into said pants, but the result was more than worth it.

“Well?” he asks. He’s standing in front of me shirtless with his arms held open like he did that first night.

I’d speak except suddenly it’s seven million years ago, and humans have not yet developed the capacity to communicate with each other using language. We’re still leaping around, hooting and screeching and humping each other like chimpanzees. 

Brian smirks. He knows exactly how amazing he looks. Feigning a yawn, he reaches down and adjusts his hardening cock. The waistband of his pants rests low on his hips, probably a mere fraction of a centimeter from his pubic hair. I weakly wipe the drool from my chin with the back of a shaking hand. His smirk widens.

“I’m assuming these meet with your approval,” he says.

“Touch,” I reply. “Can I you?”

He laughs. “My my. Have we just stumbled across a fetish? Does our young Sunshine have a Thing for leather?”

I want to say no because “having a Thing” for anything sounds weird and perverted, but instead all that comes out of my mouth is a guttural sound that probably means “I’m going to die of sexual arousal in five seconds” in caveman speak. I’m standing in the middle of the loft; he begins walking down the steps slowly. The leather squeaks ever so faintly, and the light accents the huge bulge of his dick. He’s barefoot . . . come to think about it, I might also “have a Thing” for his feet.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, his voice oozing sex through its pores, making his words warm and wet against my cheek.

“Huh? . . . What . . . ?” 

“Did you or did you not get a fifteen-hundred on your SATs? That thing in your mouth is called a tongue. It helps you shape words.” He reaches down to cup my dick and gives it a playful squeeze. “I asked what you’d like me to do. Obviously, you’re craving _something_ . . . .” He lets me go and steps back. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“No!” I squeak, and then, just in case he didn’t hear me, I say it again only louder.

“Okay,” he says with an even sharkier smile than before. “Then what?”

“You’ll do anything I ask?” I say warily. There has to be a catch.

“Anything,” he purrs low in his throat. “Anything at all.”

I’m vaguely aware of the fact that there is something sitting on the top of my neck and that it might be a head, so I nod. “Okay . . . Then sit down on the couch,” I say in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.

He turns and walks vvveeerrryyy slowly to the living room. I have never seen . . . God, I have _never_ seen anything more perfect in my life. I follow just as slowly and watch as he sits down, leans back, and spreads his legs. I can’t help my reaction. Fuck dignity. I drop to my knees with a thud, thankful for the soft rug. I’m now eye level with his crotch, and I can see his balls squished and bulging on either side of the seam. I reach out with a shaking hand and touch them, rubbing each in turn with the pad of my thumb. He tips his head back and moans. I’m surprised how soft the leather is. I’d assumed it would be thick, but it’s as thin and smooth as silk. The heat of Brian’s body clings to it. The scent is warm and earthy. I bury my face between his legs and _breathe_. He reaches down to gently, but firmly, hold my head in place with both of his hands as his hips start moving. I place my hands on the insides of his thighs and spread his legs even wider. I want . . . I want _something_ so badly that I’m shaking all over.

“Brian,” I whimper, my mouth brushing his balls. I lick first one and then the other with the flat of my tongue. It’s good . . . it’s better than good, but I still want something more. For some reason the memory of tickling Brian once in the shower comes to me in vivid Technicolor and surround sound. Without pausing to think, I lift my head and look at him. His dilated pupils have almost eclipsed the hazel, and there’s the sheen of sweat on his flushed face. I stand up, push his legs together, straddle his hips . . .

. . . and then I start tickling him.

His eyes widen with shocked surprise, and his body bucks and writhes between my legs. He’d had no idea I was going to do this . . . but then again, neither did I until a second ago.

“What the . . . ?” He tries to speak, but he can’t. He’s laughing and squirming and struggling to get away from my fingers. I lean forward and nip his ears, which makes him squirm and laugh and struggle even more. He is the most ticklish person I’ve ever met; he’s even worse than Daph.

“Stop!” he shouts breathlessly. “Cut it out!” He wriggles and twists his body in an effort to escape. He feels amazing between my legs as he arches his back and tries to buck me off with each heaving thrust of his hips.

“I’m not kidding,” he gasps. “Justin!”

His voice is frantic, breathless, pleading. I’ve never seen him so out of control. Each time he bucks up, I press down. It’s like we’re fucking, and he’s out of his mind. He’s certifiably crazy if he thinks I’m going to stop. That fathomless itch I’d felt in that place deep inside me where mind and body and pleasure and pain become indistinguishable is being scratched by his every movement.

I’m going to come. I _need_ to come.

“Oh my fucking God!” he yells. “Justin, I’m going to fucking piss myself if you don’t stop!”

Uhm.

Hhhhmmm.

Right. Okay.

_Hello, dick, whaddya think about that?_

My dick thinks it sounds like fun.

My dick is a pervert.

I don’t stop tickling him.

He grabs my hips in both hands and tries to shove me off his lap, but he’s not able to get a solid hold. He’s writhing too much, breathless with laughter.

“If you make me ruin my pants . . .” he snarls.

His words punch me in the sternum. His leather pants. I’d all but forgotten about them. I groan and squeeze my thighs as tight as I can, pressing down each time he trusts up. I look down. His cock stretches the leather so taut it would rip open the seam if it wasn’t triple-stitched and meant to take a beating.

I tickle him harder.

“Fuck you!” he gasps.

I ride his hips for all I’m worth and then throw my arms around his neck. The thought of him soaking the silk lining of those damn pants crashes through me like a wave on a steep beach. I bury my face between his neck and shoulder and come.

Okay, so here’s the story: I started jerking off when I was thirteen. I must have a billion and one orgasms under my belt (so to speak). I’m a connoisseur of orgasms – an expert attuned to every minute variation. This orgasm blows every previous one I’ve ever had out of the water. It sets a new – and perhaps un-reproducible – benchmark. I fucking burst into tears. I feel Brian wrap his arms around me and hold me so close and tight that there’s no space between us. He cups the back of my head and whispers soft soothing words against my ear. Slowly my convulsive jerking subsides into shaking, but I’m still sobbing like a baby, and I have no idea why.

I’ve just had a life-altering experience, which may sound weird and crazy, but so what. It’s true. Brian must be able to sense the rush of adrenaline and vulnerability flooding my body; he rubs my back in large, leisurely circles. Eventually the shaking turns into shivering and then into a sense of peace so profound it feels like a religious experience.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I can only nod.

“Now, _that_ is a fetish if ever I saw one, and believe me I’ve seen many,” he says. “Congratulations.”

I laugh breathlessly. He says the strangest things sometimes. 

“Now get those clothes off and get down on the floor.”

So much for the sweet nothings. I stand up and spend an inordinately long time unbuckling my belt. I feel like my fingers are made out of Jell-O. Brian opens his fly and shoves his pants down to the middle of his thighs. The head of his cock is purple and wet, the slit opened wide by the taut skin.

“Hands and knees,” he barks. I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and before I can take the deep breath I need for his entry, he’s taking me, fucking me with powerful thrusts that mash my face into the carpet. I have to turn my head so I can breathe.

“You liked that, didn’t you Sunshine?” he pants. “You liked having me out of control; you liked having me at your mercy.”

It’s true. I did. A-fucking- _lot_.

“Did you do it?” I gasp. 

“Piss my pants?”

I can’t come again after the orgasm I just had; in fact I might never be able to come again. My balls must’ve exploded. Or, at the very least, I must’ve ejaculated them along with my liquefied brain. But if I could come again, I’d come from his question alone.

“Yeah.”

“Do . . . you . . . really . . . want . . . to . . . know?” he asks breathlessly between grunts.

It’s an odd question; I have to think about it with the handful of brain cells that survived my orgasm. Yes, part of me _does_ want to know, but a larger part doesn’t. What if he says he didn’t? It would detract from the fantasy. And what if he said he did . . . ? Well, that would be weird. Pissing himself doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Brian did – which of course adds to the thrill . . .

“No,” I reply, and he laughs.

“Thought so . . .”

It sounds like he’s going to finish his thought, but then his hips go into overdrive. His thrusts turn savage. He threads his fingers between mine and plunges over his edge with a shout. I have the breath knocked out of me when he collapses bonelessly on my back.

It takes a long time for him to recover; when he does, he asks if I want to go to Babylon.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. 

He gets up and pulls up his pants; he has to inhale to zip the fly.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says and sounds like he means it.

“I . . . It’s not . . .” I stammer.

“Spit it out,” he says. He looks amused.

I try again. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just . . . it’s just . . .”

He raises his eyebrows. “It’s just what?”

“It’s just that I don’t want you wearing those pants,” I say in one big long rush of breath. His eyebrows arch even higher.

“What?” he asks incredulously. “You’re not serious. You do _not_ get to say what I can and can’t do . . . or wear.”

I look away. I’ve overstepped, and it feels like shit. Suddenly, I want to be back in his arms, listening to his amused but gentle words.

“Forget it,” I mumble.

He’s silent for a long time. I don’t look at him. He takes a deep breath. His voice is rough when he speaks.

“Okay,” he says. “The Doc will just have to continue believing his utter bullshit about me being skinny. Someone more important has spoken.”

My head whips around, and I open my mouth to say something – although I don’t know what.

“Don’t,” he says, holding up his hand. “Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t say it.” He turns and walks up the steps. I watch his retreating back. I have no idea what to think.

“Come on,” he yells from the bathroom. His voice is almost drowned out by the sound of the shower. “Babylon calls. I’ve got to get ready all over again. Thanks to you, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to wear.”

I grin and stand up. In other words, I’ll have time to shower, shave, get dressed, eat some left over pizza, and write a sequel to “War and Peace.” It takes him for fucking _ever_ to get ready to go out.

“Coming!” I yell and then laugh. Coming, indeed.

Brian opens the shower door and lets me in. “How’s it feel to have entered the world of kinky perverts?” he asks.

“Uhm . . .” Come on. How does one answer a question like that? He starts soaping my back but then turns me around and kisses me deeply. When he stops, he doesn’t step back. Instead he rests his forehead against mine and takes a deep breath.

“Promise me,” he whispers. “Promise you’ll never do that with anyone else. Promise me I’m the only one.”

I can only nod. My heart is pounding. I think he might’ve just told me he loves me.


End file.
